


so long lives this

by pasdecoeur



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Porn, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24084811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/pseuds/pasdecoeur
Summary: "Ugh, Ihatewitches."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 573





	so long lives this

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Past Imperfect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/46196) by [thehoyden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoyden/pseuds/thehoyden). 



> for the random ao3 tag generator: _inexperienced wizard fingering_  
>  i managed to get in both the inexperience and the fingering, and i stole the plot quite blatantly from a merlin fanfic so i figure thats me covered on the wizard front, right? right. nevermind. this work is unbeta'd.

Geralt dove behind a tree stump, as the last bolt of crackling blue-green energy went sailing over his head and the hedgewitch screamed in furious, indignant rage. Geralt closed his eyes, honing in on the direction of her cry, and then, instead of abandoning cover, with a brutal jerk of his wrist, he sent his dagger singing through the air, and into her throat, where it lodged with a faint _thunk!_ and her scream cut off into abrupt and deafening silence. 

He waited for a few seconds, quiet and deadly and still, just in case it was a fein—

“Helloooooooo! She’s deee-aaaddd!!!” sang an irritated voice, cutting through the peaceful silence. “Are you planning on getting me out of here? Geralt? _Geralt!”_

Geralt sighed. And got up to retrieve his dagger.

Meanwhile, Jaskier had managed to struggle out of his ropes — and, apparently, most of his _clothes_ , what the hell — and was now struggling up to his feet, briskly dusting himself off, and tramping through the undergrowth with all the subtle grace of a baby elephant.

“Took you long enough,” Jaskier complained loudly, while he peeled off the strips of his tattered, bloodied shirt, used them to wipe away the worst of the dirt and dampness on his face, neck and chest, scrubbing at his red-touched mouth with the back of his hand, spitting to the side. There was an ugly splotch of black-purple blooming over a cheekbone — the witch had hit him, Geralt realized, and then his eyes moved the rest of Jaskier’s pale, slim body as it was slowly bared to him, bruises dappling his body, purple turning black over the places where bones rose close to the skin. A sick, twisted feeling churned in his gut: the witch had hurt him quite a lot.

“I… She covered her tracks well,” Geralt said tersely. 

“Ugh.” Another long strip of shirt unraveled. “I _hate_ witches.”

“As do I,” Geralt murmured. Jaskier shot him an impatient look as if to say, _No shit, genius, I already_ knew _that,_ because he enjoyed being rude.

Geralt ignored this in a fit of magnanimity and instead asked, “How’s your breathing?”

“What? Fine, it’s fine. Did you walk here?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, feeling uncertain and panicky. He wanted to check Jaskier’s ribs — wanted to feel warm skin, a heartbeat under his hands — but Jaskier wasn’t wearing a shirt, and… and Geralt wasn’t sure if he was. Allowed.

Jaskier exhaled, showing, for the first time, a hint of exhaustion. He was close enough now, that Geralt could see the faint grey pallor beneath his skin, the tightness around his eyes. 

“Alright, then,” he said. “Go on, lead the way.”

*

  
  


They arrived at the inn, and Geralt sighed as they stepped past the threshold. He really did hate this part, the talking to strangers, the ugly sidelong looks, the radiating, ever present stink of hostility. 

The innkeeper was chatting with a customer by the bar, and Geralt stepped forward— and a palm slapped over his chest. He looked down and then at Jaskier, who was frowning at him, puzzled.

“What.”

“Look, just _go_ and check on Roach like you obviously want to, alright? I’ll take care of the— What? What?” he demanded Geralt, and his expression must have been particularly obvious, because Jaskier softened his stance a little, as he added, “Geralt, _honestly_. Go to the stables, alright?” with a funny, soft smile. “I’ll take care of the room,” and Geralt found himself brimming with such an astonishing surge of good-feeling for the bard, he made it all the way to yard until he realized Jaskier had said, _room, singular._

Whatever. He probably misspoke.

*

Geralt found his room, after one of the serving women pointed him in the right direction, and—

Well, apparently Jaskier hadn’t misspoken at all.

Room, singular.

A copper tub had been set in the middle, lazy spirals of steam rising into the dim, candle-lit air. Jaskier had his arms splayed over the rim, floating half-submerged, head pillowed on a napkin draped over the edge. His eyes were closed, lashes forming dark, half-moon shadows on his cheeks. His neck was a bare, long column, gleaming with wetness, almost glowing in humid blur. He looked up when Geralt pushed the door shut behind him, blinking lazily. 

“Oh,” he said. “Hey. The water’s good.”

Geralt’s hand tightened convulsively on the door handle. The water looked excellent. “Yes,” he said stupidly. 

Jaskier frowned at him. “Are you going to get in, or not?”

“I…” There was a faint, high pitched note screaming in his head, like claws on glass. “I don’t think there’s enough room,” Geralt said, as if _that_ was the problem. 

But Jaskier bought the excuse easy enough, casting a quick glance at the tub. “Ah,” he said. “Fair enough. Hang on,” and then he was _getting up,_ water sluicing off his naked body as he climbed out of the tub, long, glittering rivulets that streamed down miles of pale, lovely skin, and Geralt was clutching the doorknob hard enough to twist the metal. “Pass me a towel, would you?” Geralt shoved one at him, in the desperate hope that it would reduce the, ah, aneurysm-inducing levels of nudity, but _no,_ Jaskier was using it to roughly dry his _hair,_ as if the _hair_ was the problem here, as if the wet hair was what was going to put him in an early gra—

“Geralt?” Jaskier said, and Geralt’s eyes jumped guiltily up to his face.

Jaskier was grinning. “Well,” he said, “ _that’s_ flattering.”

“What,” Geralt managed, but then Jaskier was tossing the damp towel aside, and sauntering up to him, long fingers twisting in the fabric of his tunic and tugging him down so their mouths slotted together, and then Jaskier was crowding him against the door, wet hands in his hair, the front of his tunic soaking through immediately, Jaskier’s mouth licking him open, hot tongue sliding against his, breathing in the jungle-hot air, his hands helplessly curling around his narrow hips, nudging his thigh between Jaskier’s legs, and swallowing up his moans when his hot, wet cock rubbed against the rough cambric of his trousers, sticky-pink and half-hard already, and, _gods_ , oh gods.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasped, tearing his mouth away, gripping the back of his neck, holding him still. “We— we _shouldn’t—”_

But Jaskier scowled at him instantly, like he’d been expecting it. “Alright, you have _got_ to cut it out with that! I mean, _every time,_ it’s the same bloody song! I’m not a bloody princess in a tower, okay, just because I got knocked around by some stupid witch a little doesn’t mean I am incapable of making decisions about—”

And it seemed like Jaskier could have gone on in that direction for hours, so the prudent thing to do here, Geralt decided firmly, was to kiss him quiet. 

_*_

Jaskier let himself be pushed onto the mattress, and made gratifyingly weak, happy sounds when Geralt climbed on top of him, mouths sealed together. His nails raked hungrily all over Geralt’s back, fingertips rubbing the dip of his spine, the dimples in the small of his back, clutching his ass so hard, on another man it would have left bruises. His hips were practically arching off the mattress, in a perfect, mind-melting grind of their aching cocks; it was, all of it, so good that when Jaskier pushed his shoulder to flip them over, Geralt went with it, easy as anything, and discovered there was something intoxicating about a lapful of eager, flushed bard. Jaskier’s hands smoothed over his chest, his eyes half-lidded, breath escaping in sharp pants from his swollen, red mouth. Geralt found his hand fisting in the bedsheets when Jaskier bent to kiss his throat, bite gently at a nipple, licking over his stomach, exhale over his cock.

“Come _on,”_ Geralt said, if somewhat pathetically, “Jaskier, what the hell are you—” _waiting for,_ he had intended to say, but then wet, sucking heat was enveloping him, and Geralt felt his head drop back against the mattress as he groaned, harsh, all the way from inside his chest, arching into Jaskier, squeezing his shoulder, his hips stuttering, fighting desperately against the urge to fuck that hot tight throat.

Jaskier’s hands were discovering all kinds of new sensations on his cock, pulling them out of his body, working the base of the shaft, squeezing his balls, finding that spot just behind that made sparks explode behind his eyes, and Geralt said things, he knew he was saying things, things like, _oh, oh, fuck,_ and _yes, come on, please,_ and _gods, your mouth, i love your mouth,_ beyond dignity and sanity, becausewhat did any of that _matter_ right now.

But then Jaskier was pulling off, and Geralt looked up, distraught, only to see Jaskier shove three of his fingers into his mouth, pull them out sopping wet, and Geralt swallowed, his throat working hard. Jaskier bent down again, but now Geralt couldn’t stop watching, and those blue eyes kept meeting his, Jaskier’s wrecked beautiful mouth sealing around the head of his cock, and those fingers rubbed against the tight clench of his ass, and Geralt shuddered, jaw clenching painfully. 

“Jaskier, I, I— I’m not—” and then one of his fingers was slipping past the tight pucker, and his tongue was flicking just under his cockhead, right on the fat, pulsing vein, and his fingers were sinking deeper, and his whole chest was a tight, hard knot, of— _something,_ something he thought Kaer Morhen had… ruined, the blackened ugly memory of _hurt-pain-no_ rising in his mind like a carcass from water. 

But this was Jaskier, said another voice, Jaskier who was bright and lovely and idiotically brave, who gave candy to babies and fell in love sixteen times a day, Jaskier was _kind,_ it was— impossible to think of him hurting anyone, and Geralt made some kind of harsh, broken sound, and Jaskier wrapped his other hand around Geralt’s cock, pumping hard and quick, and Geralt was fucking that hand, fucking back onto those perfect, clever fingers, pulling Jaskier up so they could kiss again, kiss and kiss until it felt like their mouths ought to be running blood, shuddering, groaning into each other as they came, as they broke open, as they flew apart into a hundred thousand pieces.

*

Geralt was idly stroking Jaskier’s back, floating in golden, endless light. He could sense Jaskier watching him, propped up on an elbow, contemplative.

“What,” he asked softly, not bothering to open his eyes. He felt all over _excellent_.

“You were really worried, huh?” Jaskier asked him, matching the softness of his voice.

Geralt opened his eyes, but the goldenness didn't drift away, like it had supersaturated his body, sunk into his bones. “Hmm?”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier was saying, eyes intent and blue-gold in the candlelight, impossibly beautiful. “I really didn't know that it was— that hard for you. I should’ve, I know, after all these months, I’m just…”

“Months,” Geralt repeated, and, _months?_ he thought, and there were things slotting together in his head now, how Jaskier had known Geralt would want to check on Roach instead of talking to the innkeeper, the way he had kissed, sure and confident, the things he had said — _‘every time, it’s the same bloody song’_ — and he had, he had _known_ things about Geralt, about what he would like in bed, things even Geralt hadn’t admitted to himself, not in… years. Decades, and Geralt’s hand on Jaskier’s back caught on a strange, unfamiliar ridge, ropey like scar tissue, like the jagged mark of a dagger slicing through flesh, a scar the _real_ Jaskier absolutely did **_not_** have. Cold cold fire was burning through his body, burning the gold to brittle ash. 

_Of course this isn’t real,_ a voice in his head laughed, high and mocking, _of course this isn’t Jaskier, of course the real Jaskier doesn’t want you, foolish boy, weak desperate child,_ but Geralt’s body was moving already, operating on sheer bloodyminded instinct. He vaulted out of the bed, grabbing the _thing_ wearing Jaskier’s face by its throat, slammed it into a wall, snarling, “What _are_ you?!” and “Where is Jaskier, you son of a bitch?” 

Meanwhile, the thing was moaning, “Ow, ow, ow, fuck!” was saying, “What the hell is _wrong_ with you!” in a tone of perfect outrage, such a perfect facsimile that Geralt wanted to sink his dagger into its guts, for— for _taking_ this from him, for—

The door slammed open, and Jaskier said, “HEY! Put me DOWN, you asshole!” only this Jaskier was standing at the door, and the thing Geralt had pinned said, “Oh, so _that’s_ how that happened.”

*

“So it was the witch?” the thing that looked like Jaskier asked… the other Jaskier, who nodded, pouring himself a glass of water from the ewer by the mirror, drinking deeply. He swiped at his wet mouth with the back of his hand, and sat down on the stool there. 

“She was trying to— I don’t really understand it. An experiment with time. But she messed up, she—”

“—sent herself back in time,” the thing finished. “Where Geralt killed her.” He was still mostly naked. Geralt looked away. 

“And she sent _me_ forward, to _your_ time, so you got thrown back in my place. I don’t know, the whole things giving me a headache. More importantly, how did you _not_ figure it out?!”

It smiled wryly. “Well,” it said, “I was… somewhat distracted. How did _you_ figure it out?”

“Well, your Geralt _kissed me!_ And, oh, also, we were in the WRONG CITY! It was,” he waved his hands expressively, “fairly easy to put together from there.”

“Wait,” Geralt said, speaking up for the first time, “so… You’re… You’re _both…_ ”

“I’m Jaskier from now, yes, _he’s_ Jaskier from the future,” the new Jaskier finished. 

Geralt turned to the other Jaskier. “The future, where… where we’re…”

The bard-from-the-future grinned. And then he turned to his past version, said, “So, you clearly managed to get yourself sent back to your time. Any way you can do that for me?” and Geralt’s Jaskier, the _right_ Jaskier, the one who hadn’t kissed him, who had _never_ kissed him, pulled a tiny vial out of his trouser pocket and shoved it into a waiting hand.

“So, bottoms up, is that it?” he said, and Jaskier nodded, and Geralt said, sharply, desperately, “No, _wait,”_ and then he was stepping in front of the Jaskier who was about to _leave_ , about to leave _him,_ wrapped a hand around the base of his skull and pulled him in for a hungry, ravaging kiss. 

When he pulled away to breathe, Geralt said, bitterness choking him, “Okay, fine, you can—” but Jaskier touched his face, curious and gentle, like he could see clear through Geralt, to the soft broken inside of him, and he was saying, “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

“You’re _leaving,”_ Geralt spat out, only he was quite sure he hadn't meant to say that out loud. The other Jaskier, _his_ Jaskier made a soft choked noise, like he was— _surprised._

The Jaskier in his line of sight, though, was starting to smile, a wry curve of his kiss-bitten mouth. “No,” he said, “no, love, I’m not. Don’t you see? We’re still together in my time. This isn’t the end of you and I — this is how we _begin_.”

_*_

_Jaskier woke in the rubble of the hedgewitch’s house — except it was all wrong, somehow. The sun was higher in the sky, and the forest leaves were turning gold, and the air felt cold. His head was still ringing, but other than that, he was unhurt and his thoughts were clear. He struggled against the ropes binding his hands and feet._

_“Geralt,” he tried to call out, but his throat was dry. “Geralt,” he called out again, and it came out in a papery whisper. There was a thump somewhere, followed by heavy footsteps, and then Geralt was rounding a corner, mouth tightening when he saw Jaskier._

_He set to work on the bindings immediately, cutting him free, before running his hands over Jaskier’s face, his head, his chest, proprietary and blazingly hot, like he knew Jaskier’s body. It was familiar, and too-intimate, a hot wick of desire bursting to flame beneath his skin._

_“Man, I hate witches," he mumbled, and Geralt shot him a look, like,_ 'No, really, you're just getting that now?' _Whatever. It was expressive. And rude._

_He sucked in another unsteady breath, when Geralt found an aching spot just behind his ear, and rubbed his thumb across the bump, doing strange terrible things to his whole body. "Hey, woah," he gasped. "Getting a little handsy there, aren’t we?” but Geralt was frowning at him even as he helped Jaskier to his feet, one hard, steady arm looped around his waist, the other hand still cupping his jaw, which was— was unbruised and not in need of medical checking and totally, absolutely fine—_

_“Geralt?” he said uncertainly, when the witcher didn’t move, like it wasn’t odd at all, to be holding Jaskier like this, so close he could feel the pounding basso of the Geralt’s heartbeat against his own chest. “What…”_

_“You’re okay.”_

_“Yes, I’m— Try not to be a girl’s blouse, for heavens’ sake, I’m—”_ fine, _he would have said, but then Geralt’s mouth was brushing against his, lips rubbing achingly gentle at the corner of his mouth, tongue darting in slow, searching swipes. His teeth nipped at Jaskier's lips until he gasped, and those hands held him while Geralt kissed him deeper, like they would never let go._

_He was dizzy by the time Geralt’s lips moved to his throat, licking over his pulsepoint, finding salt and sweetness, breathing hard into the curve of his neck. He dragged his hands over the witcher's back, feeling profoundly, singularly shaken._

_“Geralt?” he said, and he pulled back just enough to look at Jaskier. “What…”_

_“That was our first kiss?” he said, but he was smiling, just a little, smiling with his eyes, and Jaskier was struck by the sudden, fathomless urge to press his mouth to the little crinkle at the corner of his eye._

_“Yes?” he said._

_Geralt’s mouth curled in a breathtakingly fond smile. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title from shakepeare's sonnet 18:  
>  _So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,_  
>  _So long lives this, and this gives life to thee._
> 
> thanks for reading! if you'd like to use the prompt generator yourself, you can find it [here](http://www.generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=9094). and if you liked the story, remember to hit kudos <3
> 
> find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur!


End file.
